


TLC

by silverfoxstole



Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who (Big Finish Audio)
Genre: Charley takes care of the Doctor, F/M, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-21
Updated: 2016-08-21
Packaged: 2018-08-10 04:16:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,377
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7830076
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/silverfoxstole/pseuds/silverfoxstole
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Charley has to screw her courage to the sticking place when the Doctor gets sick and there's no one to turn to for help.</p>
            </blockquote>





	TLC

“Doctor?” Charley called, poking her head around the door of the console room. “Doctor, are you there?”

The cavernous chamber was dim, what little illumination there was provided by the occasional candle or lamp and the flickering lights of the console itself, overcast by the baleful blue glow of the time rotor. The rotor was moving steadily, indicating that they were either in flight or hovering in the vortex; the Doctor’s absence, along with the regular cycling of static on the hanging monitor suggested the latter. Charley frowned; she hadn’t seen him since their return to the ship the previous evening and she had retreated to her room, desperate for a bath and a sleep. There was no sign of him in the kitchen, the library or the butterfly room and she was starting to become slightly worried. It would not, she admitted to herself, be entirely unlike him to just go wandering off deeper into the TARDIS and forget what day it was, caught up in some discovery or other, but on the odd occasion it had happened in the past he left her a note, or, in one instance, she tracked him down by following the trail of discarded junk from his pockets. Anyway, she had left him last night with a stack of books and his gramophone and he seemed settled in for some time, happy to while away the hours until she announced the arrival of morning by bringing him a cup of tea.

Folding her arms she tapped her foot for a moment, scanning the shadows for any movement. After a few moments she thought she spotted something over by the bookshelves, just outside the circle of light cast by the Tiffany lamp that stood on the table next to the Doctor’s favourite armchair, an armchair that was empty apart from a few overstuffed cushions. It was the record player, the disc still spinning though the arm had returned and removed the needle from its groove. Carefully she crept forwards, on her guard despite his frequent assertions that nothing could get into the TARDIS, and was startled two feet away by a groan. She waited and the sound came again; as she got closer she could see a blanket hanging off the edge of the sofa, a pillow askew beside it. And there, on the floor, was a crumpled heap of Time Lord apparently trying weakly to pull his face out of the Chinese rug.

Charley sighed, crouching down at his side and resting a hand lightly on his back. Even through his shirt and waistcoat he felt warm and clammy, the fabric sticking to his skin. Alarm bells started ringing in her head: the Doctor was _never_ hot. As he registered her touch he raised his head and blinked at her, blue eyes glassy. He opened his mouth to say something but no sound emerged; swallowing thickly he tried again and managed in a hoarse voice,

“...Charley?”

“Yes, it’s me. Oh, Doctor, why didn’t you tell me you were ill?” she asked gently, reaching out to brush away the hair that was hanging in limp curls over his face. He was flushed and she could hear his breath coming far too fast.

“Not... not ill. Just a little... out of sorts, that’s all,” he murmured, shaking his head; reeling, he dropped back down to the floor, brow resting against his outstretched arm. “Just... let me sleep... I’ll be fine...”

“I don’t think you will,” Charley told him firmly. “You must have caught something on that last planet; the palace didn’t look particularly sanitary, so heaven knows what the dungeons were like.”

“’M not ill...” the Doctor insisted, words muffled by the rug. “... Time Lord... can’t get sick... like that...”

She rolled her eyes, though the gesture was of course completely lost on him. “Well, you obviously can, as you are. Come on,” she ordered, taking hold of his arm and trying to prise him up from the floor, “I’m putting you to bed. You’ll be more comfortable there.”

He waved a vague hand. “...Don’t need that.”

“Yes, you do. Come on, Doctor!” Charley managed to lift him enough to slide an arm beneath his shoulders and hoist him to his knees. It was an effort, as he was heavier than his slight build and modest stature suggested and about as much help as a rag doll; a further attempt got him onto his feet and she steered him around the chair and out of the console room, the pair of them wobbling about like contestants in a three-legged race. With him this close the unusual heat of his skin was obvious; while for a human it would be no more than a little extra warmth, she knew by now that in a Time Lord with a much lower body temperature such an increase could be akin to a high fever.

He could barely put one foot in front of the other, head drooping and eyes half-closed; it was a relief to find the door to his room and drop him carefully onto his bed. Charley pulled off his shoes and went looking for pyjamas, her anxiety overriding the embarrassment she would usually feel at the idea of going through his things. All she found was a pair decorated with question marks that didn’t look as though they would fit him and some soft linen nightshirts; she chose one of the latter and as she shook it out finally did find herself blushing at the implications of what she would have to do next. The Doctor just lay where she had left him, sprawled on the counterpane and face turned into the pillows, oblivious to her dilemma. Charley bit her lip. They were friends, the best of friends, but well brought up young ladies definitely did not undress gentlemen of their acquaintance, even if said gentleman was obviously unable to do so himself.

Torn, eventually she laid the nightshirt on the end of the bed and hurried into the bathroom, both to hide her blushes and run some cold water, telling herself she was being ridiculous. The Doctor needed her. Hadn’t he cared for her when she went down with the flu a few months before? He wouldn’t be put off by some silly social convention that was probably horribly outdated by whatever time period they were currently circling. _True_ , her common sense agreed, but then her propriety objected that she would have been mortified if the Doctor had seen her under-things and she was stuck once more.

Thankfully, by the time she emerged with a bowl of water and some towels the problem had been solved for her: the Doctor had apparently come round enough to change; his clothes were discarded on the floor, and he was struggling to get into the big brass-framed bed. Charley took his arm and helped him, settling him down with a cool face cloth folded across his forehead. She perched on the edge of the mattress, noticing absently the patchwork blanket so like the one she, Cissy and Peg had made while confined to the house one very wet summer, and brushed back his hair, freeing a strand that had become stuck to his cheek.

After a while he sighed, eyelids flickering and breath hitching in his chest. “... Thank you... Charley.”

“You’re welcome. Can I get you anything?”

Curls rustled against the pillowcase as he shook his head. “I think... I think I’m going to... go to sleep now... if that’s all right.”

“Of course it is! I’ll be right here when you wake up,” Charley promised, and he gave her hand a squeeze. A slight smile touched his face for a moment before his head rolled to one side and he was gone, so swiftly it seemed a switch had been flicked inside him. She watched him fondly for a while before gently setting his hand back on the bed and tucking the blankets a little more firmly around him, remembering how her mother would do the same to her when she was a little girl; it had always made her feel more secure.

Looking around the room she spied a comfortable-looking armchair in the corner and dragged it over to the bed, curling up in its leathery depths with a book from the teetering pile on the night-stand. The Doctor’s room reminded her a little of her father’s study: all dark wood panelling and Turkey carpets. There was a big mahogany wardrobe, the door standing partly open with three cravats and a blue and gold waistcoat thrown over it, and a hat stand in the corner, though she’d never seen him wear any of the hats that hung there. A drawing of a woman’s head that looked very familiar hung over the bed; getting up for a closer look Charley squinted at the signature, which seemed to read ‘Leonardo’. _Typical_ , she thought with a grin. Only the Doctor would have an original Da Vinci hanging in his bedroom. There was a framed black and white photograph beside it, of a lady she guessed, knowing his love of the genre, might be an opera singer; it was signed: ‘With all my love, Maria’.

She settled herself in the chair and turned back to her patient. It was unnerving to see him like this. Usually a whirlwind of energy, he behaved as though he was invulnerable; Charley knew he wasn’t, that even though he was a Time Lord he could be hurt just like anyone else, but it was easy to believe the fiction as long as everything was going their way. He talked so much about being an alien, but just at the moment he looked all too human, all too frail. She leaned forwards, soaking the compress in the cold water and wringing it out, replacing it on his brow; he stirred and mumbled something under his breath, but didn’t wake.

***

Two hours later it was the sound of his voice that startled her from the doze into which she’d fallen; she sat up even before her eyes had properly opened, the book she’d been reading falling to the floor with a loud slap. Instinctively she leaned towards the bed as her vision cleared, and her heart sank at what she found. The Doctor was muttering, nonsense words that barely seemed to be strung into complete sentences; his head rolled restlessly on the pillow, the compress, useless and dried up now, fallen to one side. He’d thrown back the covers but Charley could see he was shivering; she laid a gentle hand on his forehead and found it even warmer than before, the skin dry and tight.

“Oh, Doctor.” Standing she pulled the blankets back up, but as soon as she had he was pushing them off again. For some minutes she fought with him; even this ill he struggled wildly but what little strength he had soon evaporated and she managed to overpower him, tucking the blankets under his chin and pinning his arms to his sides to keep him still. “You have to stay warm,” she told him, but he shook his head.

“...No ...too hot ...why’s it so hot in here?” His voice rose, quivering angrily, and he opened his eyes, glaring at her. They were almost nose to nose, and Charley involuntarily drew back; the normally pale blue eyes were bright with fever and so dark they looked virtually black. His breath was coming so fast he was almost panting, as though he’d just run the one hundred metres.

“I know you’re feeling hot but you have to stay covered. The fever must come out,” Charley said, hoping that on some level she might be reaching him. There was a wobble in her voice that she hoped he couldn’t hear; beyond these simple measures she had no idea what to do. How did one fight a fever in a Time Lord? Would normal human remedies be even remotely effective? There was no point trying to take his temperature, as she had no way of telling how high it would have to climb to be dangerous. In that moment she found herself wishing for the first time that they weren’t alone in the TARDIS, that she had someone to turn to for help. She was completely out of her depth. “ _Please_ , Doctor, it’s for your own good.”

To her astonishment he actually growled, the sound rumbling in his chest, as he tried to sit up; her heart skipped a beat in shock but she held on tight. He fought her once more, twisting from side to side, lips drawn back in a snarl as he bellowed, “Get... off me... girl! Get... _off_!!” This sudden resurgence of strength was startling and for a few terrified seconds Charley thought he might succeed in getting free and possibly hurt himself or her, but then, just as abruptly as it began, the onslaught stopped and he fell back onto the pillows like a marionette whose strings had been cut. “...Charley?” he gasped, voice little more than a whimper now. “...Charley... help... help... me... _please_...”

“I want to help, Doctor, tell me how!” she implored, releasing him. She bent over, stroking his hair as his eyes fell shut again. “I can’t help you if you can’t help _me_!”

“...In... infirmary...” His chest heaved as he struggled to breathe. “...Antiviral...”

“I don’t want to leave you!”

“...medication... only chance...” The Doctor grimaced in pain and his next words made no sense, dropping back into delirium. Charley waited but no more was forthcoming, just the regular monotonous murmur that had woken her earlier. The last thing she wanted was to leave him alone, a horrible feeling in the pit of her stomach that if she did something dreadful might happen, but one look at his pale face, at the hectic spots of colour across his cheekbones, as she straightened the blankets and tucked them in once more decided her.

“Come on, Pollard,” she told herself sternly. “Being a lily-livered little miss won’t do him any good at all. Time to screw your courage to the sticking place.” She sighed. “That was all very well for Lady Macbeth, but she didn’t have a sick Time Lord on her hands.”

With one final glance towards the bed she hurried from the room and down the corridor, roughly in the direction she remembered the infirmary being and hoping that for once the TARDIS hadn’t moved the rooms around. The ship had a very irritating habit of doing just that, and sometimes Charley couldn’t help thinking it was deliberate; the Doctor usually seemed to find it amusing, unless he had an urgent need for tea and couldn’t find the kitchen, but to Charley it felt rather more sinister, as though the TARDIS didn’t like her and was being deliberately capricious.

It seemed her luck was in as almost without warning she found herself stumbling over the threshold of the infirmary, a blindingly white room filled with futuristic equipment, the use for most of which she could barely even begin to fathom. She shielded her eyes for a moment as the lights dipped to a more comfortable level, and her heart sank as she surveyed the many cupboards and drawers set into the walls: how on earth was she meant to find one type of medication amongst so much clutter?

“I know you’re listening,” she announced to the room at large, “You always are; I can feel it. I don’t usually beg, but for pity’s sake, whatever you think of me, help _him_!”

Silence greeted her words; there was not even a change in the pitch of the ever-present hum to suggest a response. Tears spiked in Charley’s eyes and she clenched her fists in frustration.

“Please,” she whispered desperately. “Please, I don’t know what to do.”

Still nothing. Thankfully, Charley wasn’t one just to lie down and give up; after a few tense moments the lack of acknowledgement just made her cross and anger was always an emotion that should be put to good use. Wiping at her eyes with the back of her hand she straightened; if the TARDIS wasn’t going to give her any assistance she’d just have to look through all these cupboards herself.

“Right. If that’s the way you want it...”

She pulled open the first door and was faced with shelves upon shelves of pill bottles, of varying sizes and in a rainbow of colours. Picking one up she squinted at the label, which read: _Painkiller, Venusian_ in copperplate script. Discarding that one she tried another, and another, and another...eventually the entire contents were strewn across the countertop and she moved on to the next, but even after trying the third there was no sign of anything remotely useful and she’d wasted too much time. While she’d been messing about in here the Doctor might have taken a turn for the worse! With a yell of rage Charley kicked the coving in front of her and then yelped as she stubbed her toe; a second later she jumped backwards when a drawer she hadn’t even noticed shot open, almost smacking her in the stomach.

“What the...?” Reaching a hand into the drawer she pulled out a small blue glass bottle with a yellowing label; the writing was faded and almost illegible but she just managed to make it out: _Antiviral: Gallifreyan_. Her fingers shook but she held it tightly; she was already moving towards the door, her feet carrying her there almost before she’d registered the fact. “Oh, thank you, thank you, thank _goodness_...”

***

When she reached the Doctor’s room it was clear she was not a moment too soon; he was lying across the blankets, dressing gown pulled towards him from where it hung on the end of the bedstead as though he’d been trying to come and find her and collapsed. With a strength born of anxiety Charley hoisted him up, leaning him awkwardly against her shoulder as she sat down on the mattress once more; his eyes were closed, and his breathing was by now so shallow it was barely visible. She could feel his hearts hammering, her own doing a pretty good job of keeping up with them. Reaching around him she shook out two of the little green pills into her hand, managing somehow to twist and pour some water from the carafe on the bedside table.

“Come on, Doctor,” she said, trying to inject some cheer into her voice; it sounded false even to her ears. She pushed back the matted curls that were covering his face and pressed the tablets against his mouth; almost automatically it opened and he swallowed the medicine, followed by some water from the glass she held to his lips. Nerves stretched tight, Charley was practically vibrating with worry as she laid him gently back down onto the pillows, the hands that straightened the bedclothes once again clumsy and trembling. Would it work? And if it did, how long would it take?

The waiting was the hardest part. Unable to rest, she watched him like a hawk, alert to any sign of change. The Doctor just lay still, unresponsive, either unconscious or asleep; she hoped it was the latter. In the end it took over an hour but gradually she could see his chest begin to rise and fall naturally once more, breathing deep and even, the flush fading from his cheeks; gently she rested a hand on his forehead and relief flooded through her when the skin felt cool beneath her fingers. Her legs suddenly felt as though they would no longer hold her up as all the tension in her body drained away; she sat down heavily on the edge of the bed, not sure whether she wanted more to laugh or cry at the knowledge that he would be all right. When he finally woke properly Charley greeted him with a mixture of both: tears in her eyes and a broad smile on her face.

“Hello,” she said, and he smiled back. It was a worn, washed-out smile nothing like his usual one but she was so glad to see it that she instinctively crumpled forwards into a hug, desperate for reassurance now that it was all over and she could stop being strong for just a moment, could let the fear of the last few hours pour out. Before she knew it she was crying into his shoulder and the Doctor was patting her on the back, murmuring soothing nonsense. When at last her sobs had become hiccups and she pulled away Charley felt like a silly little girl, trying ineffectually to wipe her eyes with her sleeve. “I’m sorry, I’m being foolish.”

Long fingers pressed something into her hand and she looked down to find a red and white spotted handkerchief there, just like the ones that characters in illustrations used to tie up their belongings. She gave a gulping laugh and glanced up to meet the Doctor’s serious blue gaze. “You have nothing to apologise for,” he told her, his voice huskier than ever. “Quite the opposite, in fact: you were quite the heroine of the hour.”

She shook her head, dabbing at her eyes. “I only did what anyone else would have done.”

“You took care of an idiot who refused to admit he was seriously ill until it was too late.” He pulled a rueful face. “Many would take the opinion that it was entirely my own fault.”

“Even so, I don’t believe anyone would have left you to suffer.” Charley sniffed one last time and balled up the hanky, straightening her back. She regarded him properly: he was pale and drawn, eyes shadowed and hair falling limply around his face, but he was definitely looking better. She’d heard him pontificate more than once about having lived for hundreds of years and she’d not been quite sure whether to believe him or not; just now he appeared to be younger than ever, bundled up in blankets like a child. “How are you feeling?”

He groaned, running a hand through his tangled curls. “Like a dishrag that’s been wrung out rather too often. But it’ll pass, thanks to you and the antiviral; I can feel my autonomic systems compensating, metabolising the infection.”

“Thank goodness for that,” Charley said with feeling. “You had me very worried there for a while.”

His face fell, the picture of contrition. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you.”

“I know you didn’t.” She took his hand, squeezing it. “You really have to start taking better care of yourself.”

“I’ve been told that more than once; never quite managed it. I’m lucky I have you to look after me.” His fingers curled around hers. “Thank you, Charley.”

“You don’t have to thank me.” Shyly she peered at him from under her lashes, not quite sure about the strange effect his touch and the soft smile that lifted one corner of his mouth were suddenly having upon her skin; there were goosebumps dancing up her spine. “But you’re very welcome all the same. Is there... is there anything I can get you?”

The Doctor shook his head. “No, no, I don’t think so. It’s more rest that’s required for me, but, actually, now you come to mention it...” His tired eyes lit up hopefully, “I could murder a cup of tea.”

***

It was some considerable time later that he looked up from the book he’d been reading, across the detritus that littered the counterpane, the remains of the board games Charley had found in the console room and brought in to amuse him when convalescence began to pall, to see that she had nodded off in the big leather armchair. Her blonde hair fanned out over the cushions, revealing her exhausted face and the purple smudges beneath her eyes, and his hearts panged with guilt at the sight. Poor Charley; she really didn’t deserve so much anxiety, especially not on the account of a stupid old Time Lord who was too stubborn to admit he needed help. If he’d actually taken the antiviral when his temperature started to spike, or, even better, when he’d begun to feel a little bit dizzy after they returned to the ship, all of this could have been avoided. Claiming he was lucky to have Charley was an understatement; while the virus hadn’t been strong enough to trigger a regeneration, much less to outright kill him, it might still have caused more than a little damage had she not been there to fetch the medicine just in time. There were moments lately when he’d begun to wonder what he would do without her.

Even in sleep she looked drained. With a sigh he put the book aside, using his glasses as a marker, and reached for one of the spare blankets that were folded across the foot of the bed. She was curled up in the chair and it was easy even in his weakened state to drape the blanket around her and tuck it under her feet and chin until she was cocooned. She wrinkled her nose and he waited, expecting her to wake and ask in an amused tone what on Earth he was doing, but she just turned her head and snuggled deeper, her lips lifted just a fraction in a contented smile. The Doctor adjusted the blanket across her shoulder where it had come loose and allowed himself to stroke her hair just for a moment; he could feel sleep pulling at him too and though his strength was starting to return he still had a lot of repairing to do.

Settling himself back in the bed he reached for the switch on the lamp that stood on the nightstand. “Goodnight, Charley,” he whispered, turning off the light. “Sweet dreams.”

He thought he heard her murmur, “Goodnight, Doctor,” but of course, slipping rapidly into sleep himself he could have just imagined it. A moment later the only sound in the darkened room apart from the background hum of the TARDIS was the steady sigh of two sets of breathing.

The breathing of two friends, taking care of each other. Just as it should be.

**Author's Note:**

> Just as a side note, Kate Orman and Jonathan Blum gave the Eighth Doctor bifocals in Vampire Science, and though they never made another appearance I've always liked the idea.


End file.
